


Unconditional

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhausting ourselves helps no one, M/M, Police, Protective Crowley, Protests, There are limits to miracles, This is a love story, Work/life balance angel style, aziraphale cares too much, loss of power, proposal, rest and recovery, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 04:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: While trying to bring calm to increasingly volatile protests, Aziraphale's powers fail abruptly. Forced to rest and wait for them to return, Aziraphale re-evaluates his priorities and decides to ask Crowley an important question.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491419
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	Unconditional

**Author's Note:**

> Not the pure fluff I originally intended, but hopefully soft enough!

It has been drizzling all day but the rain starts in earnest as the police move into position. They have been shouting their warnings and their ultimatums through megaphones for the last half an hour. The assembled crowd knows the drill, they’ve been doing this for three weeks now, putting their bodies on the line to protest the government’s inaction on climate change. Some of them are veterans of the arrest process, they know all about passive resistance and they know their rights, but it’s still a frightening thing to be surrounded by armed and aggressive police who will drag you away from the safety of the group the first chance they get. The protesters link arms, someone starts to sing. Voices rise up in peaceful defiance as the police close in.

Not everyone is singing. Not everyone is calm. Not everyone remembers what they have been told to do when they’re staring down the barrel of arrest.

‘I can’t do this.’

She is not speaking out loud but the words are as clear to Aziraphale as the shouts around him. The panic confuses him. He is here to keep things peaceful after all, his presence having already prevented the anarchy inclined from giving in to their more destructive anti-establishment urges. He has played this role many times throughout history, his support the quiet, solid type that prevents riots, escalation and all the violence that goes along with it. And it has been working. In almost a month of protests, there have been no reported injuries amongst the protesters or the police. There might be no public acknowledgement but there’s a grudging respect between the two groups which, as Aziraphale had tried to explain to Crowley the previous evening, is a kind of miracle of its own. But now, as the first arrests are made, Aziraphale senses his control on the situation beginning to slip.

One of the protesters, having been yanked roughly to his feet, spits into a police officer’s face. Another one screams as her arm is twisted behind her back. The leaders of the group shout out instructions, appealing for everyone to remember that the police are not the enemy, but there are two sides now and one of them presses their advantage. The protesters have broken ranks, splintering into smaller groups that are easier to surround. Aziraphale raises his hand, brings it down. Nothing happens.

The police have method, experience and a dispassionate need to follow orders on their side. The protesters did have strength in their unity, and more than a little experience of their own, but fear has crept in, loosening the grip each person has on the other, working its way through to widen the gaps between them, leaving the weakest amongst them exposed and vulnerable.

Aziraphale, who has never yet been treated by the police as part of the group despite sitting amongst them most days for weeks, shakes his hand as if the failure in his powers is due to some minor cramp. The atmosphere is thickening but he can sort things out. He clicks his fingers again. The man beside him is grabbed by four officers. Someone else starts screaming, ‘He’s autistic! He’s in meltdown! Don’t hurt him!’

Aziraphale clicks his fingers five times in a row, the sound lost amongst the tumult. He stares down at them, baffled, but no matter how many times he tries he cannot stop the police from loading the two young twins into the back of two different vans. He cannot prevent the officers surrounding the leaders of the day’s protest from screaming their orders over one another making it impossible for anyone to follow them. And he cannot stop the young woman right beside him who is struggling to breathe from succumbing to her all-consuming panic. At least, he cannot use his powers to stop any of these things. Pushing aside his own terror and choosing to disregard for the moment the very real fact that he is defenceless and in danger, Aziraphale scoots a little closer to the woman beside him. Her bright pink hair has fallen across her face, her whole body shuddering with the effort of pulling in each ineffective breath. The sleeves of her thin coat are pushed up to reveal several long, straight scars on her left arm. On the right he sees an intricate tattoo, a stylised but instantly recognisable snake. Aziraphale’s heart melts.

‘You’re with me,’ he says.

The woman jerks her head up, her eyes full of terror. Aziraphale looks back, unflinching. They had spoken briefly earlier, enough for her to recognise him as an ally but not to trust him. Seventeen years old and she has skipped school for this, she had tried to persuade her friends to come with her but no one did. She had been angry about that earlier but the anger is gone now. She is wishing she had not come. Being arrested for her is not a trivial matter, there are parents to think of, her school, the record she will carry with her, and beneath is all the dull ache of feeling that none of it matters, that the world is ending before she has had a chance to live. Aziraphale reads all this in a moment, he has been reading people since there were people to read and he understands.

‘You’re with me,’ he says again, because she needs someone, because everyone else has a hand to hold and she is alone. Before he can think of a way to persuade her that he can be trusted, she is moving towards him. She links her arm through his and shudders in a ragged breath.

‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘Just breathe.’

It won’t be long now. A few of the remaining protesters have made a break for it, tearing through the barricade that has been set up to corral them. Aziraphale does not suggest that they run.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

‘Margot,’ the woman replies, ‘What’s yours?’

‘Ezra,’ Aziraphale replies, ‘Ezra Fell.’

Margot sniffs.

‘You been arrested before, Mr Fell?’

Aziraphale remembers with piercing clarity waking up to find his hands bound, his body not his own. These memories are painful and he does not find them helpful.

‘I have,’ he says, ‘It’ll be okay. We’re going to do exactly what they ask of us and we are going to stay together.’

‘Do I call my mum?’ she asks, ‘Will they let me call my mum?’

Aziraphale’s heart squeezes very tightly in his chest.

‘There won’t be any need for that,’ he says with complete certainty, ‘There’s only one call we need to make.’

It takes a long time for the police to grant anyone a phone call. Aziraphale spends most of this time comforting Margot who cannot stop crying. Without his powers this does not amount to much more than passing the poor woman his handkerchief and assuring her that he will not leave her alone. He has grown accustomed to not feeling alone himself, and it's a powerful thing. 

The phone trills three times before Crowley answers. Aziraphale can picture him in the bookshop, standing in the dark, needing no lights to pick his way through the clutter and reach for the Bakelite.

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale lets out a breath he did not know he was holding.

‘Hello, darling. I’m so glad you picked up.’

‘Where are you?’

The question comes out clipped and sharp. Crowley will be trying to discern what he can from the background noise, no doubt. There’s plenty for him to work with. Aziraphale closes his eyes, presses the phone harder against his ear.

‘I can’t seem to…I tried…but nothing happened. I’m in Camden police station. Would you come? Please?’

‘Stay where you are, I’m on my way. For you and no one else, got that?’

Aziraphale does not argue. It always works better in person.

‘Thank you, my dear.’

Crowley’s arrival is heralded by the double doors of the station bursting open and a great deal of shocked shouting which is almost immediately silenced. Seated on a bench at the back of the room, Aziraphale watches Crowley stride into view, taking in the room with his shielded gaze. The instant Crowley finds Aziraphale several things happen at once. The buzzing strip lights, so reminiscent of Hell that Aziraphale has avoided paying them too much attention, flicker on and off; the water in the cooler in the corner of the room starts to boil; and Aziraphale’s handcuffs unlock themselves and fall with a clatter to the floor.

Margot notices the handcuffs.

‘Mr Fell?’ Her eyes rise to Aziraphale’s face then follow the line of his gaze across the room. ‘Oh! Is that him?’

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale, ‘That’s him.’

Crowley saunters towards them both.

‘Let’s go, angel.’

Margot looks uncertainly from Crowley back to Aziraphale. Crowley does not so much as spare her a glance.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, looks imploringly at Crowley, but otherwise does not move. It would be easy for Crowley to see to it that no one notices them leaving, he can ensure that no one remembers Aziraphale was anywhere near the protest and he is probably already considering turning those responsible for his arrest to ash but Aziraphale not cooperating makes things more difficult. Aziraphale does not like it but he made a promise, he is not leaving without Margot.

‘You should go,’ Margot says, her pink hair falling across one side of her tear streaked face, ‘Seriously, Mr Fell. Thanks for trying.’

‘Nonsense, Margot, my dear,’ says Aziraphale, taking her attempt at bravery and parrying it deftly, ‘I’m not going anywhere without you. Crowley knows that.’

Aziraphale does not look away from Crowley who is grinding his frustration between his teeth. The standoff lasts fifteen more seconds.

‘Fine!’ Crowley snarls, spinning on his heel and within moments officers who were otherwise occupied suddenly find themselves overwhelmed with the pressing need to release everyone that Aziraphale had been booked with. No charges are filed for any of them, they are released without so much as a warning. Fifteen minutes later and the whole lot of them, Aziraphale included, are standing outside. A series of protracted goodbyes follow which Crowley, standing alone by the Bentley, pretends to ignore.

‘Mr Fell?’

Margot has been waiting her turn and is now the last person standing between Aziraphale and his ride home.

‘Yes, dear? Do you require a lift?’

‘No,’ says Margot, blushing, ‘Thank you, Mr Fell, I’ll get the bus. I just wanted to thank you. And your husband.’

Aziraphale’s insides do something strange at the word she chooses. He glances at Crowley but the distance between them and the sheltering screen of his glasses make it impossible to tell whether he heard.

‘Very sweet of you,’ Aziraphale manages to say, ‘I will pass on your sincere thanks. Take care getting home.’

‘You too, Mr Fell.’

The moment Aziraphale nears the car, Crowley is opening the passenger door. Before he starts the engine, Crowley turns the heat up high. It’s an effort for Aziraphale not to slump in his seat but he cannot stop his eyes from closing. Neither one of them speaks. Only when Crowley has pulled into his customary space outside the bookshop and cut the engine does Aziraphale open his eyes, look over at him and smile.

‘My hero.’ 

Snuggled on the sofa under three blankets, cushions banked up around him and a hot chocolate in hand, Aziraphale is starting to feel more himself. He has not tried a miracle and frankly, with Crowley’s strict directive not to do anything remotely strenuous, he does not dare. It had taken some persuasion to get Crowley to stop fussing and come and sit beside him, persuasion and a single well-placed use of the word ‘please’, but now they are side by side, Crowley’s fierce heat warming Aziraphale in a way nothing else ever could.

‘You really are, you know.’

Crowley tenses slightly.

‘What am I?’

Aziraphale reaches for his hand, twines their fingers together.

‘A hero,’ he says, lifts their linked hands, kisses the back of Crowley’s, ‘My hero.’

Crowley makes a low, grumbling noise. He likes to play the hero, Aziraphale has known this about him for a very long time, but there is no victory today, no smile.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Crowley says because he can tell, of course he can. 

Aziraphale does not try to deny it but nor is he in any rush to explain himself. He had promised Crowley he would be careful. He had promised. He takes his time before explaining, organises his thoughts. 

‘They’re happening around the world, the protests. All over.’

Crowley says nothing, listens hard.

‘So many people, Crowley. So many of them fighting for the world we saved.’

It had started small, a few miracles here and there to keep the protesters in London safe but then someone would mention their friends in Paris or their cousin in Sydney and Aziraphale would feel the love between them, the connections pulling taut across the world. Sending miracles long distance was a difficult thing, an exhausting thing. Aziraphale told himself he would stop, that he would rest, but the protests went on and the humans were not resting and if the humans were not resting then how could he?

‘There’s so many of them, too many to keep safe. I only wanted to help, didn’t mean to get carried away.’

He shivers and Crowley throws an arm around him, holds him close.

‘I’m fine,’ Aziraphale says, repeating it until the words make no sense any more and Crowley is whispering, ‘Ssh, angel, you’re safe, you’re okay.’

‘But my powers, Crowley. I can’t…they’re not…’

He lifts a shaking hand, clicks his fingers. It’s an ineffective gesture when Crowley does not know what he wanted to happen but Crowley understands regardless.

‘Nothing?’ he breathes, ‘Nothing at all?’

Aziraphale hates the fear in Crowley’s voice, hates that he’s the cause of it.

‘It’s temporary. I need to rest, that’s all.’

‘Rest?’

Crowley has increased the pressure on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It’s starting to hurt. 

‘Darling, I’ll be fine. I am fine.’

‘How long?’ Crowley demands, ‘How long until your powers are back?’

‘I don’t know, it’s only happened once before.’ World War Two. So much suffering. And a bomb on a church, scattering all deniability, blowing every wall inside him apart. ‘It took about a week.’

‘A week,’ Crowley repeats. It’s a heartbeat for them, no time at all. He’ll be perfectly safe, nothing’s going to happen to him. Aziraphale must have spoken the last bit out loud for Crowley says sharply, ‘Of course nothing will happen to you. You’ll be with me.’

Aziraphale wants to laugh, diffuse the tension a little. Both of them are acting as if living a mortal life is the most terrifying thing imaginable. But the laughter won’t come and Aziraphale is glad that Crowley has not let go of him. Neither one of them knows what would happen if they were to be discorporated, whether they would ever come back. Without his powers, Aziraphale feels Heaven and Hell pressing closer than they have done in months.

‘A week of rest then,’ says Crowley, ‘Doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.’

‘Oh no?’ Aziraphale wiggles a little, finds the slim, solid plank of Crowley’s chest, ‘You’d have to take care of me.’

‘Mmm,’ says Crowley, ‘And see to your every whim, no doubt.’

‘Naturally. I do have a great many whims.’

‘I’d better stay close,’ says Crowley, his lips brushing the side of Aziraphale’s neck.

‘It’s for the best,’ says Aziraphale leaning into his touch, ‘I might need you at any time.’

‘Won’t be letting you out of my sight then.’

Crowley’s voice is so low Aziraphale feels it more than he hears it. And oh, he feels it everywhere.

Crowley is as good as his word, not that Aziraphale had any doubts on that score. He cannot so much as make himself a cup of tea without Crowley snapping his fingers to do the job for him.

‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ he scolds. 

‘I hardly think filling a kettle counts as exertion, my dear.’

Apparently they have different definitions. They agree to disagree.

Despite the restrictions, Crowley will absolutely not consider allowing Aziraphale to take even a small trip outside without his powers, Aziraphale finds that there is much to enjoy. It’s like they’ve moved in together all over again, too dazed with love and disbelief to want to be any further than touching distance apart. The fear, however, is never far away. 

Three in the morning, six days in. Aziraphale has not tried to perform a miracle for several hours but he knows it would not work. He feels a lack, an absence, an emptiness where his power should be. If he thinks about it too much, the panic overwhelms.

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale is on the sofa, Crowley seated on the floor between his legs. He raises his head from where it was pressed against Aziraphale’s knee, turns to look up.

‘I can hear you thinking.’

‘Oh?’

‘They’ll be fine.’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever you’re worrying about.’

Aziraphale marks his page, places the book down. 

‘I promised I would help,’ he says.

‘And now you can’t,’ says Crowley, tipping his head back, ‘Things change.’

Aziraphale worries at his lip.

‘I promised, Crowley.’

He knows he should be used to letting people down, to not being good enough. His shoulders curve in on themselves without him realising, his body trying to make itself as small as he feels. Crowley narrows his eyes and Aziraphale finds himself looking away, uncomfortable heat filling his face.

‘You haven’t broken your promise,’ Crowley says and his tone is certain, bordering on fierce, ‘You said it yourself, you need to rest. Nothing wrong with that.’

Aziraphale nods, tries to smile. He’s very glad when Crowley looks away, leaves him to the prickle of his hurtful thoughts. 

On the eighth day, Aziraphale snaps his fingers a dozen times, the friction hurting his skin. Each time nothing happens he lets the flare of panic subside before he tries again. Crowley is nearby tending to his plants, Aziraphale can hear his low growl, a substitute for the shouting he would do had he been alone. He tries again. He only wants to turn the lamp off, that’s all he’s trying to do. Something small, barely noticeable, but his failure feels anything but little. It’s ridiculous really, how worked up he is getting over nothing, because it is nothing, his powers will come back. Mortals get along just fine without miracles, they manage at any rate, their lives go on, and with Crowley beside him Aziraphale hardly need miss being able to conjure anything at all. Crowley’s attentiveness is dialled up to eleven, Aziraphale barely needs to hint at what he wants and it’s his. A wave of pure adoration washes over Aziraphale at the thought of how hard Crowley is trying to ensure that the fear of the situation is kept to a minimum. And really, the dynamic is hardly any different from usual. Crowley has always protected him, cared for him, loved him. Aziraphale still wonders though, he still doubts.

‘Crowley…’

Crowley materialises in an instant.

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale turns to him, his beautiful demon, places his hands on Crowley’s warm chest. Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hands with his own, fixes him with that unblinking golden glare that could pull the truth out of anyone.

‘Crowley, my love, would you…if I…?’

His thoughts are tripping over themselves. The way Crowley is looking at him makes him ache.

‘What is it?’ Crowley asks and what he means is, _tell me how to fix this_. What he means is, _I’ll do anything_. Aziraphale can admit that he is frightened. He can. Crowley won’t mind. He won’t sneer or laugh or accuse him of cowardice. 

‘My powers are not coming back.’

‘They will.’

‘What if they don’t?’

‘They will.’

‘But if they don’t, Crowley, will we…will everything remain the same between us?’

Crowley’s expression is so open, so raw, that Aziraphale wants to look away. His hands over Aziraphale’s are warm. Neither of them move. Neither of them speak for a long time. Finally Crowley blinks.

‘Are you asking me if I’ll still love you?’ he says, very slowly, very quietly. The depth of his hurt reverberates through them both, fills Aziraphale’s eyes with tears. There is an apology on Aziraphale’s lips ready to fall but Crowley kisses it out of the air, kisses the breath from him.

‘Always.’ Crowley’s words whisper across Aziraphale’s lips. ‘Always, angel.’

‘Crowley,’ says Aziraphale in the spaces Crowley leaves between kisses, ‘Crowley…’

And the hours pass with no more doubts.

It is day twelve and Aziraphale is not thinking of protests or all the many people across the globe who are desperate, in pain, in need. He is not thinking about anything but Crowley’s fingers in his hair.

For the past eighteen hours he and Crowley have been watching films, alternating between Crowley’s choices and Aziraphale’s. They’re watching one of Crowley’s now, something loud with guns and explosions though a seemingly implausible lack of onscreen death. Since the film began, Aziraphale has been lying with his head in Crowley’s lap, an orientation that is relatively unusual for them and yet, comfortable as he is, Aziraphale cannot for the life of him think of why. He should feel guilty, Aziraphale thinks, for these long days of bliss. He should but for the last few days he can’t get the guilt to stick.

Crowley brushes Aziraphale’s earlobe with his fingers, breathing slowly. He does not seem to be paying the film any more attention than Aziraphale.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

Aziraphale twists so that he is looking up into those bright eyes. Eyes that have seen too much of the darkness of the world yet still shine.

‘Would you swap places with me, my dear?’

‘If you want, angel.’

Aziraphale does not want Crowley’s hands to slip from his hair nor does he want to sit up but any regret over his decision evaporates as Crowley settles on his lap and sighs. He hasn’t slept since Aziraphale lost his powers and the strain is starting to show. Aziraphale can feel the tightness of his muscles, the sparking tension of his soul.

‘Close your eyes, darling.’

Crowley obeys, smiling softly as Aziraphale threads his hands through fire red hair.

‘Nothing can happen to me while you’re here, dearest. You can sleep. I’ll wake you if I need to, I promise.’

Crowley puts up a token protest, murmurs something but does not open his eyes. Aziraphale continues to provide soft assurances for a while, turns down the volume of the film. When he is sure that Crowley really has gone to sleep, Aziraphale waves his hand at the television. It’s instinct. And it works. Aziraphale stares at the blank screen, clicks his fingers to see it come to life again, clicks again to watch the action die away. He should wake Crowley, demonstrate, celebrate, but instead he clicks his fingers once more and a blanket drapes itself over the sleeping demon. Crowley has stood guard over him for the best part of a fortnight, it’s time for Aziraphale to return the favour.

Crowley sleeps for six hours. Aziraphale does nothing to disturb him, content to be still and quiet for as long as is required. For a while he considers reading but it occurs to him that his thoughts are more than enough to keep him occupied. He had thought that once his powers were restored he would want to return straight away to the front line of the protests but he is beginning to wonder what that would achieve. He intends to help, as promised, but he is wondering now whether he might not be the only one to benefit from a more balanced approach.

Aziraphale senses Crowley is about to wake a few seconds before his eyelids flicker. He likes to watch Crowley wake, loves to see the moment he remembers where he is and with whom. How many times he must have woken alone, how many more times must he wake in Aziraphale’s arms before it is no longer a surprise? 

‘Angel?’

Crowley smiles, stretching slightly. The reflected flames from the candles Aziraphale has lit sparkle in his eyes. It takes only a second or two for Crowley to realise that something is different. He sits up slightly, takes in the scene. Aziraphale watches him closely, suddenly nervous. What had started as a test of his powers had rapidly become something quite different, and it is entirely possible that he has gone overboard. Crowley’s eyes are wide as they take in all the orchids, roses and delicate waxflowers that Aziraphale has conjured into being and used to cover every surface. It’s too much, far too much, yet Crowley’s expression softens so quickly into open wonder that Aziraphale starts to believe that he has got it right after all.

‘A thank you,’ he says, ‘For protecting me.’

Crowley looks at him.

‘Always,’ he says, still sleep confused, ‘I’ll always protect you. Don’t need…this.’

No, Crowley never needs thanks or appreciation, would never ask for a day never mind a fortnight of Aziraphale’s undivided attention. He would never say don’t use your powers this way, look after yourself, choose me. Aziraphale’s chest feels tight, there’s not enough room for everything he’s feeling. Another miracle and the gramophone clicks and pops to life, the strings of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major swelling to fill the room.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says, disappointed, the music does not suit the mood of the moment, ‘That’s not what I…’

He lifts a hand but Crowley stops him. 

'Don't overdo it. Let me.' 

The music changes and Crowley stands, extending his hand towards Aziraphale.

‘Dance with me, angel.’

‘I can’t…’ Aziraphale begins but he gets to his feet, allows himself to be drawn into Crowley’s arms.

He can’t dance, neither of them can, not well, but the song that plays casts a spell over them both. Aziraphale does not think he has heard it before, Crowley usually listens to his music through headphones. But this isn’t the loathsome bebop that Aziraphale has always assumed he is being spared. This is something else entirely.

_Stay with me, darling _

_ Let us lose ourselves in the moonlight_

‘Got your power back,’ Crowley says, low in Aziraphale’s ear.

‘Yes.’

‘No need for us to be this close then.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ says Aziraphale, pulling Crowley closer still. Is it the scent of the flowers that is making Aziraphale feel lightheaded or is it Crowley himself, looking at him like he is all he’s ever wanted?

‘You’ll be more careful, yeah?’

Crowley says it like he doesn’t mean it, says it like it’s a joke, easy to dismiss, but Aziraphale knows better.

‘I will, my darling. I promise.’

Crowley’s grip on him tightens then relaxes again.

‘Right then,’ he says.

‘Right,’ echoes Aziraphale.

They keep dancing to the same sweet, slow song and this time Aziraphale lets the lyrics sink in.

_There’s nothing you could say _

_ That would make me go away_

_ No danger you are in _

_ And I wouldn’t step in the way_

_ You’re not alone any more_

_ This love’s unconditional_

Crowley’s choice. Crowley’s words. Crowley’s promise. Aziraphale waits until the song ends before he tries to add a few words of his own. Words that should be meaningless for them, two eternal beings bound by no earthly law, but he’s trembling already and the words, those tiny little words, need to be coaxed from his lips. 

‘What is it?’ Crowley asks, kissing the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. It’s not meant to be a tease but Aziraphale feels the touch burn all the way through him. 

‘Play the song again, my dear.’

‘As you wish.’

The song starts again and Aziraphale gathers his courage once more.

‘Crowley, my darling, would you…have you ever considered…what would you think of getting married?’

The instant the question hits the air Crowley goes so still that it’s only the continuation of the music that convinces Aziraphale that time has not in fact stopped. They are no longer dancing but locked together and Aziraphale wonders whether he should have got down on one knee, done the whole thing properly, bought a ring.

‘Did you just ask me…?’

Crowley cannot say the words either. Aziraphale hopes it’s for the same reason.

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale because he’s committed already and he’ll be damned before he takes it back, ‘I choose you, Crowley, and I want everyone to know.’

‘You’d marry me?’

Crowley seems to be struggling to keep up.

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale, raising his hands, placing them on each side of Crowley’s face, ‘It would be the greatest honour and privilege of my life to marry you.’

Crowley swallows, doesn’t seem capable of a coherent response. The song plays again and Aziraphale sways in Crowley’s arms until they’re both moving again. It’s still not dancing, not by anyone else’s definition, but Aziraphale doesn’t care. All that matters is Crowley bringing his forehead to meet Aziraphale’s own.

He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no.

‘I would have married you in Eden,’ he says, ‘Right there on the wall. I would marry you in every country in every language in every way possible. I will be yours whenever and wherever you choose.’

Aziraphale fights back tears but there’s no need, Crowley is letting his fall. He will never impress Heaven, and he cannot save all the humans who need saving, but Crowley has never needed Aziraphale to do either. Crowley loves him, has always loved him. He has always been enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Unconditional by Freya Ridings. Her whole album gives me big ineffable husbands feelings but this song is perfect for them. Do listen to it, her voice is blissful. 
> 
> The protests are inspired by the climate strikes and protests happening all over the world. Big love and thanks to anyone involved in any way, and to anyone fighting for a better world. Take care of yourselves. 
> 
> And so ends this loosely themed series. Come and say hi @marbledwings on Tumblr


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